Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (6 page)

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

The deputy’s face lit up. “Aw, she hit the jackpot, man. One of the Docs here. Hell of a good kid, just out of med school. Matter of fact, that’s how I got this gig.”

Sandy came around the corner and walked over to where Kevin and I were standing.

“All done?” I said.

“Haven’t even started yet,” Sandy said. “There was a some sort of big wreck out on 465. They’re backed up, so I’m just waiting. Supposed to be next.” She looked at Kevin and stuck her hand out. “Hi. I’m Sandy Small, the best thing that’s ever happened to Virgil and his team.”

The deputy laughed and shook her hand. “I’ll bet you are. I’m Kevin Campbell. It’s a pleasure.” Kevin lowered his voice and leaned in toward Sandy. “You know, I wanted a spot on Virgil’s team, but they wouldn’t have me.”

Sandy looked at me. “Why not?”

“Not mean enough,” I said.

“Fuck you, not mean enough,” Kevin said to me. “I’ve forgotten more about mean than you’ll ever know.” Then to Sandy: “Pardon my French, little lady.”

“Fuck your French,” Sandy said.

“See,” I said. “Mean like that.”

Sandy made a pfftt noise with her lips. “You don’t know the half of it.” I wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but before I could say anything a nurse came through the doorway and spoke to Sandy. “The doctor will see you now.”

* * *

The nurse escorted us down the hall and into one of the curtained areas she identified as bed eight. Inside the curtain area was a wheeled hospital bed with the back raised to a forty-five degree angle, a chair, a stand-up closet and a small stainless steel sink and counter. The nurse reached into the thin closet next to the bed, handed Sandy a gown, and told her she could leave her underwear on, smiled at me, and said the doctor would be right in. She pulled the curtain closed, and left us standing there, Sandy holding the gown, looking at me with an evil grin on her face.

Oh boy.

Sandy gave her index finger a little twirl and said, “No sneaking a look, Mister. I mean it.”

“How about I just go back out to the waiting room?” I said.

Sandy ignored my question and started to undress. I turned around, but didn’t leave. “That guard was something else, huh?,” she said.

“Yeah, he was,” I was studying the pattern on the curtain, listening to the sounds of the emergency room, watching the feet of the hospital staff and other patients shuffle by the bottom of the curtain. I also listened to Sandy undress. I heard her shoes as she kicked them off, a little static electricity from her shirt as she pulled it over her head, and finally the zipper being lowered on her jeans and the sound of the denim as it slid against her skin as she wriggled out of her pants.

“Okay, I’m decent. You can turn around now.”

I turned and looked at her. She stood in front of me, the thread-bare hospital gown pulled tight across her front, and I could see the fullness of her breasts, her nipples pressing against the thin fabric.

Sandy turned her back toward me and faced the bed. She held the back of the gown closed with her hand. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Help a girl out, will you? I couldn’t get the ties.” She looked forward while letting go of the back of the gown. I watched it fall open, and felt myself swallow. I could hear my own heartbeat in my head.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, but I already knew that. I let my eyes follow the shape of her shoulder blades inward toward her spine, then down to her waistline. A small tribal tattoo peeked out of the top of a black thong that rode high on her thin waist, covering almost nothing of what was, it looked to me, at least the second best ass I’d ever seen in my life.

“Come on, Jonesy. Tie me up. I’m feeling a draft here.”

I cleared my throat without meaning to. “Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry.” I stepped up close to her, and tied the top tie first. The front of her thighs were against the side of the bed and part of the gown was trapped so I had to actually open the bottom part and tug on it a little to release the material. The back of my hand brushed up against her ass and when it did I felt like a school boy trying to cop a cheap feel. I am at least a foot taller than Sandy, and I fumbled the knot on the first try, the angle awkward. “Uh, sorry.”

“Come on Cowboy, you can do it. Just make two bunny ears and wrap one around and through the other.”

“No, no it’s not that. It’s the angle. I’m taller.”

Sandy placed her palms on the edge of the bed and stood on her tip toes and arched the small of her back. “Better?”

You’ve got no idea, I said to myself.

“What was that?” Sandy said.

When she went up on her toes, I immediately upgraded my assessment from second best to all time best. Without question. I finished the knot. “Nothing. There you go.” But neither of us moved. I thought how easy it would be to just place my hand between those beautiful shoulder blades and bend her over the hospital bed, and as I did I noticed for the first time that her legs were spread beneath the gown. Were they like that a minute ago? I wasn’t sure. She reached over with her left hand and grabbed the pillow from the front of the bed and brought it in front of her. I noticed my hand come to rest at the top of her back.

I had just started to push, or thought I had when Sandy turned around. “Jonesy, what do you think the doctor would say if he caught us?”

I felt a little dizzy. Before I could answer, the curtain was yanked back and a tall, good looking doctor stepped in the room and smiled. His hair was pure white, but there were no lines on his face. His solid black eye glasses were a sharp contrast to his hair color, giving him a dramatic flair I associate with a television actor or movie star. He wore traditional green scrubs under a white knee-length lab coat. His clog-style shoes looked like they were made of wood and cork with suede tops. The doctor looked at me, then at Sandy and said, “Looks like I got here just in time.” He took his pen out of his pocket, tapped it on the clipboard he was holding, then pointed to the ceiling at the corner of the room. We all looked up and saw the security camera. “Two of my nurses just went on break. One of them is getting married in a month. I’m the groom’s best man. They said something about it was getting hot in here. So, how can I help you, young lady?”

* * *

I left the room so the doctor could examine Sandy. I’d been walking up and down the corridor for half an hour, thinking about what might have just happened with Sandy when I heard her voice behind me. She was talking with the doctor who had just examined her. The doctor pulled a card from his breast pocket and wrote something on the back and then handed it to Sandy, shaking her hand in both of his before walking away. It looked to me like he held her hand a little longer than necessary.

A few minutes later we were in my truck. I started the engine and looked over at Sandy. “What’d the Doc say?”

“He said I was fine. And he meant it, too. He gave me his number. Seemed like a nice guy.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out his card, placing it on the console between us. “He said if you don’t have enough sense to see what you’re missing, I should give him a call. What do you think?”

“He was a pretty good looking guy,” I said. “He definitely had that distinguished doctor thing going for him.” I dropped the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot and onto the street. “Probably makes about a million a year, you know, if that kind of thing matters to you.”

“You think I should call him? Or would that be too forward?”

“I should probably get you home” I said, ignoring her question. “You know, doctor’s orders, and all.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. You didn’t answer my question though. What do you think? Should I call him?”

I picked up the card looked at it for a second, tore it in half and tossed it out the window. “You must have hit your head harder than you thought. You’re clearly not thinking straight.”

Sandy laughed and watched the card slip away into the wind. It was the best laugh I’d ever heard.

“I memorized the number,” Sandy said.

“My ass, you did.”

“Already entered it into my cell phone.”

“Uh huh.”

“I did. Want to see?”

“Want to hand me your phone before I roll the window back up?”

Like that, all the way back to Sandy’s. Twenty minutes later we were at her place. I walked her to the door and by the time we got there I could see the adrenaline wearing off. There was an awkward moment at the door, then Sandy stood on her toes and kissed me—quick—on the lips. “I’ll get with you after I rest for a while, okay?” Sandy said.

“How about tomorrow?” I said. Then I pulled her close and hugged her for just a moment before I turned around and headed for my truck. When I looked back she was already inside.

I was in love.

She worked for me.

It would be trouble.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The older I become the more I have begun to notice not only the evolutionary changes taking place in our society, but the ebb and flow of resistance that comes with those changes, particularly in middle aged men such as myself. Usually, just when I have convinced myself that I am still of the age of a younger and smarter generation, something happens to remind me that time is not just something we measure but something that exists with an unending and ubiquitous rhythm. No matter how badly you would like to slow the clock, you have no more control of such universal mechanisms than you do the beat of your own heart.

When I got back in my truck I had a message waiting for me on my cell. It was Rosencrantz, telling me that he had Dugan’s office sealed and his computer was already on the way back to the lab for processing. Rosencrantz and Donatti were the other two members of my team. I hired both away from the city, Rosencrantz from Sex, and Doantti from Homicide. They are my unofficial leg breakers. If I need muscle, I went to Rosencrantz and Donatti. Rosencrantz answered on the third ring. He sounded bored.

“Uh, listen, you guys haven’t beaten anyone up or anything, have you?” I said.

“Hey, boss, come on,” Rosie said. “Give us a little credit. We’re highly trained investigators. Besides, I haven’t beaten anyone up for over a week.”

“Uh huh.”

“If you were thinking about getting something to eat before coming over here I wouldn’t bother. When they heard the boss was dead someone made an executive decision and catered in about ten grand worth of food. We’ve interviewed Dugan’s secretary, the entire executive team and their secretaries as well. Everybody except the executive committee is walking around here bumping into each other like a bunch of zombies or something. Nobody has any useful information for us at all and there’s a ton of food here that’s going to go bad if someone doesn’t start eating it. I’m thinking maybe I should take some home with me. In fact, you know that Crime Scene tech, big Al, the one that weighs in around two eighty or so? I saw him fill four or five evidence bags with Swedish meatballs and bacon-wrapped shrimp before he left. The bottom line is the only real thing I’ve learned so far is that no one uses the word ‘secretary’ anymore. They prefer ‘executive assistant.’ Who knew?”

I thought for a moment then said, “Didn’t you go to New Orleans last year?”

“Two years ago, but yeah. Went for Mardi-Gras. I got you that Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt, remember?”

“Sure. You flew down, right? How were the stewardesses?

“Fine I guess. I don’t really remember. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind,” I said.

See what I mean?

* * *

I pulled away from Sandy’s and after about a block I realized I didn’t know where the Sunrise Bank headquarters were located. I pulled over to the curb and tried to Google the name from my phone, but the signal wasn’t strong enough and I didn’t have the patience to wait. I called Rosencrantz back. He was still eating.

“What’s the address over there. I tried the Google and it wouldn’t come up. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“You know,” Rosie said, “I’m not exactly sure. Donatti drove. I was sleeping.”

“Well, find someone and ask will you?”

“Don’t need to. I’m standing right next to his secretary.” Then obviously to someone else I heard him say “Ouch, hey, that’s assault on a police officer. Okay, okay.” Then, back to me he said, “What I meant to say was, I’m standing right next to his executive assistant. Then a few seconds later: “Okay, Jonesy, got a pen?”

* * *

City traffic. A slow drive to the bank. I spoke with my dad on the drive over. Together my father and I own a downtown Jamaican bar called Jonesy’s. “Listen pops, I’m going to be tied up tonight, if you’ve been watching the news.”

“Can’t miss it,” Mason said. “Nothing else on.”

I try to work as many hours as possible at the bar, but when I’m on a case, it falls to my dad to pick up the slack. “That gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, son. I’ll see you when I see you.”